


what happens when two substances collide

by harperuth



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fuck Or Die, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Pollen, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, lots of consent talk, various background pairings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26031379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harperuth/pseuds/harperuth
Summary: They had encountered a peculiar defense system laid by the late inhabitants of the planet. Skids had been examining it, trying to determine whether said inhabitants were still around, and whether it was something that might impact Cybertronian builds when Whirl tripped it. A wavering energy beam had arced from frame to frame, bathing them all in a sickly purple glow.The effects had become apparent rather quickly.
Relationships: Cyclonus/Riptide (Transformers)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 69





	what happens when two substances collide

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to...rare pair hell...thank you to k for finishing [your cyc/riptide](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25561639) first i don't think this would've made it out of wip purgatory without it
> 
> title is from 'a nervous tic motion of the head to the left' by andrew bird

Cyclonus doubted that he’d accompany Rodimus on one of his planetside jaunts for quite awhile, no matter how intent Tailgate was on going. Cyclonus had decided in the last half a cycle that Tailgate was more than ready to take care of himself. Perhaps he could transfer responsibility for his safety to Rodimus, if he was just as insistent that Tailgate accompany him.

This was certainly one endeavour he was leaving Tailgate to manage on his own. 

They had encountered a peculiar defense system laid by the late inhabitants of the planet. Skids had been examining it, trying to determine whether said inhabitants were still around, and whether it was something that might impact Cybertronian builds when Whirl tripped it. A wavering energy beam had arced from frame to frame, bathing them all in a sickly purple glow.

The effects had become apparent rather quickly.

Brainstorm and Whirl hadn’t even made it halfway back to the Lost Light before beginning to interface.

Brainstorm and Whirl’s lack of tact had at least clued them into the fact that they needed to burn off the peculiar charge with an unaffected mech. A sheepish Skids in one of the few corners of the Rod Pod confirmed that it couldn’t be taken care of by one’s self. It left all of them making some rather desperate comms to the Lost Light.

Skids had been collected by Rung. A cursing Velocity had literally picked Nautica up and hauled her out. They might have all taken a moment to watch Ultra Magnus usher a bright-opticked and babbling Nightbeat out of the hangar, had he not been completely overshadowed by Perceptor whisking away both Brainstorm _and_ Whirl.

Cyclonus had left a feverish and desperate Tailgate in the capable hands of First Aid. Not only was he a medic, but Cyclonus knew that he was a partner Tailgate had sought out before. Perfectly suitable to carry Tailgate through the affliction that a number of them now suffered.

Cyclonus had no such respite.

“Lucky that you were immune,” First Aid commented, while Tailgate quite literally attempted to climb him. Cyclonus nodded stiffly, heat licking through every mechanometer of his circuitry.

“Quite,” He grit out, clawed digits digging into the softer metal of his palm, “I’ll leave you two to it.”

“Yeah,” First Aid managed to wrap an arm around Tailgate, who was pawing at his lateral abdominal panel insistently, backing into his hab, “I’ll tell him to comm you later.”

“Appreciated,” Cyclonus turned as soon as the door slid shut, intent on retreating to his own hab. There was no evidence that this _wouldn’t_ go away on its own, and he was rather intent on that option. 

He had no partner with which to extend blanket consent. He didn’t have some casual fling to ask for a favor. He certainly had no interest in the idea of forcing another mech to choose to interface with him to alleviate some discomfort. 

_Discomfort_ , he reminded himself as his HUD pinged with tension alerts from how hard his denta were grit together; how close his claws were to piercing his palms. His steps slowed as his pedes began to drag, large swaths of his processing power beginning to dedicate themselves to keeping his panel shut. Cyclonus offlined his optics, relying on his internal map of the ship to keep him in the right direction.

“Hey there bud,” Riptide said.

Cyclonus onlined his optics. At some point he had apparently shuffled himself into an alcove, curling up under a shelf. A servo was clamped between his thighs, and he was uncomfortably aware of the fact that that servo was the only thing keeping his panel shut.

Riptide was crouched in front of him, peering at him with curiosity. 

Cyclonus cycled his optics.

Riptide remained.

“Hello,” He croaked, wincing at the static lacing his glyphs.

“You okay?” Riptide cocked his helm to the side.

“I—” Cyclonus wasn’t quite sure what to say. On the one servo, he was reasonably sure if he said he was, then Riptide would leave. On the other...well, the other was currently clamped between his thighs and uncomfortably damp, “I am actually not quite sure.”

Riptide nodded like this was a perfectly reasonable response, “You were with the group that went down planetside, right?”

“Yes,” Cyclonus confirmed, and the weapon clearly had overtaken his control on his conjecture engine, because it was currently running wild over how nice Riptide’s shoulders looked, more than capable of rising up over Cyclonus while he drove into his valve, which was so _empty_ ; empty and aching and _dripping_ —

“Thought you all ran into some trouble?” Riptide dropped from his crouch to fully sit on the ground.

“Yes,” Cyclonus said, optics drawn to Riptide’s panel without his permission. Or, well, to where he supposed Riptide’s panel was. The mech had a rather large bit of armor plating hanging down from his pelvic armor and Cyclonus’s conjecture engine was taking incredible liberties with the fact.

“In fact,” Riptide had sucked his lower lip into his mouth. It had the effect of taking Cyclonus’s attention away from his panel at least, “What I heard was everyone who went down came up with some kind of ‘face fixation.”

“Ye-es,” Cyclonus’s vocalizer broke over the glyph.

“Didn't take you for the clawing at your panel in public type,” Riptide’s optics were unusually sharp as they examined Cyclonus from wingtip to wingtip. Cyclonus shivered, “So, I gotta ask. Your circuits feeling a little hot?”

Cyclonus’s panel snapped away despite his best overrides. The digits that had been doing their best to hold it shut sank against hot, swollen valve mesh, claws pricking just enough to force a groan from his intake. Riptide’s fans clicked on. An encrypted comm passed through the air. 

“Ratchet says you need to interface,” Riptide said slowly, “Says it's, uh, paramount? I dunno what Earth movies have to do with it, but if that's what you're into I can go rustle up a vidscreen.”

“I’m not—” Cyclonus cut himself off with a small moan as his digits buried themselves in his valve against his own permissions. Riptide’s optics flared and he cocked his helm. 

“Oh, sorry Ratch,” Riptide said. The comm flurry around them stopped, “I guess Aid was able to get some good info outta Tailgate, they figured out what you all got hit with and found it in the archives. Cyclonus, you need someone to interface with.”

“But, I—” Cyclonus stuttered to a stop once more, his digits hooking up and pressing _perfectly_ against the front facing node cluster that sent a shock through his system. He panted, fans not pulling enough cool air into his frame, “I just left Tailgate with First Aid.”

Riptide’s face was worried now, “Cyclonus, you've been back for almost two joor.”

That wasn't right. That couldn't have been right. They'd only docked again less than a groon ago. His thighs parted, giving him room to push up against his servo. Riptide’s optics stayed on his face. 

“Database says you either clang with someone else or burn out,” Riptide watched him, “Who can I comm for you?”

“There is no one,” Cyclonus said faintly, his frame already speeding towards an overload. He twisted his digits, pressing more insistently against his node cluster, thoughts coming clearer as he gave in to what his frame wanted, “I do not want to force someone to interface with me, just because—”

He locked up and tipped into overload. Rather than a full body relief it only seemed to make the heat race through his circuits faster. He whined. 

“Oh,” Riptide said, optics still on Cyclonus’s face, even though his fans were also racing, “Well, what about someone who wanted to interface with you before you got whammied?”

“Whammied,” Cyclonus echoed briefly, false respite from overload already passing and digits moving again, “There is no one.”

“There’s me,” Riptide said, leaning back a bit and flaring his plating. Cyclonus watched avidly. 

He opened his mouth to dispute, but his processor spat a memory file at him. A night Cyclonus had followed Tailgate down to Swerve’s, only for Tailgate to abscond with _Thunderclash_ of all mechs, leaving Cyclonus alone. Cyclonus had weathered half of his drink in silence, contemplating when he might be able slip back to their shared hab without receiving an eyeful, when Riptide had approached him. Propositioned him. 

“Drinking,” Cyclonus said, storing the memory file away again. Riptide was still looking at him with concern, but now confusion crossed his face. 

“What?”

“Can't— Ah!” Cyclonus shook through another utterly unsatisfying overload. He vented hard, “Can't consent. Overcharged.”

“I don't drink,” Riptide looked at him quizzically. 

“Bar,” Cyclonus heaved, his frame feeling hotter than he’d ever been. 

“Bars have friends,” Riptide said, “I have a lot of liquid balance to deal with just to function. I'm a _boat_. I don't add strangely charged and unpredictably viscous energon to the mix.”

“Oh,” Cyclonus tried to let all that compute in a processor that was rapidly descending into nothing but interface protocols, “You? Me?”

Riptide smirked, “Yeah, I you.”

Cyclonus pulled one last all stop he had at his disposal, shunting his interface protocols into his pleasure center and placing the whole thing behind an already crumbling firewall. He wheezed several vents as clarity swamped him. 

He'd overloaded. Twice. In a hallway. In front of _Riptide_.

“Do you trust in my ability to consent in this moment?” Cyclonus pulled his digits from his valve and closed his thighs once more. 

“No,” Riptide answered easily enough. Cyclonus wasn't sure if he approved or not, interface protocols too close to his logic centers, “But I trust Ratchet and I’m willing to face any punishment when I _can_ trust your consent.”

Cyclonus hissed, his firewalls rapidly being eaten away, “I am as close to a right mind as I possibly can be in this moment, and I am consenting.”

Riptide studied him carefully, “I’m telling Ratchet and Ultra Magnus, we’re going back to your hab so you can kick me out whenever, and I need a safeword.”

“A safeword,” Cyclonus echoed faintly, his vents picking up pace as his firewall continued to degrade. 

Riptide was suddenly incredibly discerning as he stood, watching Cyclonus with sharp optics. He held a servo out, pulling Cyclonus to his pedes, “A safeword. And fast.”

“Tetrahex,” Cyclonus mumbled, valve contracting as he stood, mesh pulling at the new arrangement of his limbs. He stumbled forward into Riptide, leaning too much weight against him. Riptide held steady. 

“Tetrahex,” Riptide repeated, starting them moving down the hall, “You say that and I stop. No matter what.”

“Alright,” Cyclonus mumbled, focusing on moving one pede in front of the other, “Thank you.”

“Nah,” Riptide said, “Not for this.”

Cyclonus couldn't answer as his firewall finally fell, charge hitting him like a rampaging bilgesnipe. He tried to push Riptide into a wall, claim what his frame so desperately needed.

Riptide didn't budge. 

“You're,” Cyclonus gasped, everything in him dizzy, “Strong.”

“Mechs really discount the strength of seas,” Riptide didn't even sound remotely winded, “It takes a lot to fight back against the tides.”

“Oh,” Cyclonus offlined his optics and curled his digits into his palms to keep them away from his array. Riptide kept them moving.

He didn’t online his optics until his wings smacked back against a berth. His berth. He looked up at Riptide, “How—”

“Commed Aid, he had Tailgate open it remotely,” Riptide assured, optics roving over Cyclonus’s frame. Cyclonus arched his backstrut, letting his legs fall open. Riptide smiled, “I take it you wanna take it?”

“Need to,” Cyclonus panted, and the weapon must have been wreaking havoc with his coding again, because now that he knew Riptide was going to interface with him, he couldn’t seem to touch himself anymore. 

“No problem on my end,” Riptide grinned, palming his panel, “You have a decision to make though.”

“Riptide,” Cyclonus _whined_. A part of him grated at the undignified nature of his affliction.

The rest of him was more than desperate to be spiked.

“Gimme a klik,” Riptide climbed on the berth, kneeling between Cyclonus’s legs, “Not all of us got whammied today. Give a mech some time to build up.”

“Did the two shaking overloads in the hallway mean nothing to you?” Cyclonus decided to give up on controlling his vocalizer. Or his dignity. 

Riptide threw his helm back and laughed, “A mech tries to be decent and not peep at the poor mech fragging himself in public and this is the thanks he gets.”

“Stop calling yourself ‘a mech’,” Cyclonus said, “I know who you are.”

“It’s a hypoportical,” Riptide grinned. Cyclonus’s conjecture engine took off again, conjuring up false sensations of what those denta might feel like sinking into his plating or cabling.

As such, it took him a moment to register the glyphs, “What?”

“A possibility,” Riptide shrugged, “I mean, I was absolutely watching you bring yourself off in the hallway.”

Cyclonus barked a sharp laugh.

Riptide’s panel popped, “Frag.”

Cyclonus laughed again, “Really?”

Riptide shuffled forward and dropped so his servos were on either side of Cyclonus’s helm, “You’ve got a nice smile.”

Heat licked across his circuits. Cyclonus stared up at Riptide’s face, suddenly so much closer to his own, “Please kiss me.”

Riptide dipped down and did just that. Cyclonus groaned into his mouth, trying futilely to drag Riptide down against him. Riptide kissed deeply, taking control of the proceedings immediately. Cyclonus relaxed into it, opening his mouth in invitation. 

Riptide didn’t take him up on it, pulling away to Cyclonus’s disappointment, “You distracted me.”

Cyclonus did his best to arch his array up to touch Riptide, “Please.”

“Cyclonus,” Riptide’s servo gripped his chin, “Listen to me.”

Cyclonus’s hips picked up a rocking rhythm against nothing, but he kept quiet. Riptide nodded, “Alright. I’ve got two spikes. How do you want to do this?”

“What?” Cyclonus was fairly certain his instant recall system had been affected by the weapon as well. It was the only explanation. Riptide sat back despite Cyclonus’s grip on him and gestured to his lap.

Cyclonus cycled his optics.

He must have been making some face because Riptide started giggling. Cyclonus didn’t look up. Riptide was a big mech. He was...proportional, “I do not think I can take both of those.”

Riptide snorted a soft vent, “Yeah, nah. You’re kind of at a desperate moment here. No time to do this right. Well, nicely right.”

“Nicely,” Cyclonus echoed. His frame was beginning to heat beyond safe parameters. 

“Slag,” Riptide was suddenly very close to Cyclonus’s face, “Cyclonus?”

“Hm?” Cyclonus managed, watching his HUD light up with warnings.

“Okay, okay,” Riptide was very far away. Or he was close. Cyclonus wasn’t sure, “I’m sorry, slag, I’m sorry. Lemme—”

His sensor net briefly registered a pressure over his front before his valve lit up. Cyclonus froze, every plate of his armor slicking down against his protoform as he shuddered through an overload. It was utterly unsatisfying but it brought his system levels back down into yellow.

“Primus,” Cyclonus gasped as he crashed back into awareness. He was on his front, chest pressed into the berth. A line of heat leaned against his back and his valve was full. Cyclonus heaved a vent, “Frag.”

Riptide hummed, “Sorry.”

“No,” Cyclonus squeezed his valve calipers, the feedback continuing to soothe his system down, “No, that was for the best.”

“Not finished though,” Riptide said. Not a question. 

“No,” Cyclonus agreed, pressing his chest down harder. It titled his hips enough that he felt something bump his valve mesh, “Oh. That is...rather nice.”

Riptide laughed, “Sorry, I panicked.”

“Good panic,” Cyclonus rocked his hips experimentally, shifting the spike inside him and the one knocking against him.

“You’ve got kind of a weird paneling situation on your legs,” Riptide said, vocalizer staticking up, “Even with the wings in the way this was quicker.”

“Wings in the way,” Cyclonus snickered.

“Shut up,” He could feel Riptide grinning against his back.

“They have uses,” Cyclonus aimed for haughty, but he was pretty sure he just sounded hopeful.

“Yeah, okay,” Riptide muttered and pushed up. One servo landed on the wire rich area between Cyclonus’s wings, while the other wrapped around the top plane of one, “You good?”

“Not yet,” Cyclonus sniped back.

Riptide pulled his hips back and thrust back in, pulling Cyclonus down onto him. The angle wasn’t doing much for that cluster of front facing nodes he liked, but the depth lit up inset nodes that Cyclonus hadn’t registered in _centuries_. The groan punched out of him without his conscious approval. Riptide laughed, “Good?”

“Yes,” Cyclonus conceded, in the hopes that Riptide would continue to do just that. Riptide set up a rolling, hard pace. It was even in a way that was hypnotic, rolling over Cyclonus’s frame with each thrust. _Waves_ , he idly thought.

He’d visited the Sea of Rust once, long ago, as a newbuild. There’d been two moons then, and the tide pulled differently, but he recognized the motion. Something hysterical wanted to burst in Cyclonus, but the pleasure was building faster than he could track it. Soap bubbles of charge burst along his lines and the circuits in his legs tingled before the rest of his frame tripped over.

Charge flashed through him in waves, the same waves like the Sea of Rust, like Riptide’s rolling hips. The overload was drawn out like nothing he’d ever felt before, arcing through each system and wire over and over again. He felt a brief spike at the answering charge from Riptide hitting him as everything was winding down. 

He slumped, every hydraulic cut, feeling like malleable protometal. Riptide grunted, his arm around Cyclonus’s hips the only thing keeping any part of him up, “You wanna lay on your front.”

“Don’ care,” Cyclonus garbled out. Riptide wormed his other arm under his chest and picked him up, getting his wings clear enough of the berth to turn him and lay him on his back. Cyclonus almost wished he could get charged up again just for that. 

“Huh,” Riptide said.

“Wha?” Cyclonus mumbled, not quite in the onset of recharge, but not much else either.

“Apparently an overload is what it takes for you to use a consumption,” Riptide hovered over him again, grinning.

“Contraction?” Cyclonus puzzled out after a klik.

“Oh, right,” Riptide’s grin shrank, “Um, are you alright?”

“Fantastic,” Cyclonus put his plating through a manual reshuffle, but everything came back good, “Weapon effect’s gone.”

“Good,” Riptide looked a little relieved, “Um, should I go?”

“No,” Cyclonus decided, “Help me clean up?”

“Sure,” Riptide’s grin flashed to full again before disappearing from Cyclonus’s view again. He waited for the sound of washrack, but there was nothing until a soft touch to his array. Riptide’s grin jumped to the front of his visual memory queue.

“Oh slag,” Cyclonus arched into the sensation. It wasn’t exactly charged, but it was nice. He settled into a somewhat soft state, system running a soft reboot and low level defrag while Riptide licked his valve mesh.

He cycled his optics at the ceiling, “A hypothetical.”

“What?” Riptide murmured. The vibration against his mesh was soft, but it made him arch again. Maybe...maybe there was some charge left in him.

“Not a hypoportical. A hypothetical,” Cyclonus said.

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me about robots on twitter [@floralpunkcfb](https://twitter.com/floralpunkcfb)


End file.
